by Adrianne Lee
The chilly September night air penetrated his thin shirt, dispersing his weighty thoughts. Two of the iron posts near the right edge of the fence felt weak enough to be forced out.
The headlights of a vehicle approaching Bald Point, near the road’s end, fanned the grounds, the house, the deck, momentarily stilled, continued to draw near, then were snuffed.
Teenagers parking, Craig supposed, applying the tire iron to the fence and levering his weight against the tool. The tinny clash stabbed the quietude.
Wincing at the bleating alarm, Craig wrenched the two rusty posts apart, then squeezed his lean frame through and headed up the drive. The damp air drew goose bumps across his flesh. About ten feet from the house, he halted, staring at the red shutters sandwiching each window. Absently, he tapped his thigh with the tire iron.
The last thing he’d done before leaving here last September was secure the shutters. Now they stood open. Since receiving word of Wayne’s fatal heart attack, he had pondered his uncle's presence at Windance, coming up with a couple of plausible reasons, but it looked as though Wayne had been using the house, Craig concluded climbing the steps, after he'd asked him not to. He felt annoyed, and as quickly, guilty for feeling annoyance toward a man who could not defend his actions.
Heavyhearted, he unlocked the door and strode into the spacious entry. A hand braided rug covered most of the foyer. With the thick cushion swallowing his footsteps, Craig padded to the opposite wall, groped for and found the switch.
Light transformed dark shapes into well-known objects. With a raised brow, Craig regarded the familiar trestle table and its companion antique bench. Both oak surfaces were exposed, the sheets he’s used to cover them flipped to the floor in crumpled heaps. Missing was the Dresden vase that belonged…A movement at the corner of his vision brought him spinning on his heel just in time to see the vase in question arcing toward his head.
He raised his arms too late. The vase struck his forehead and shattered. He dropped to his knees. The tire iron slipped from his slack hand. As blackness overtook him, Craig had the strangest impression that he’d been felled by a soaking-wet, blond sea monster.
With her heart trip hammering, Lyssa leaned over the unconscious man. Seawater and grit dripped from her hair and her clothes onto his creased white shirt, his rumpled gray slacks and his handsome face. Her gaze bounced from the metal bar to the prone figure and she felt a dizzying wave of relief. She'd avoided having her head bashed in by mere seconds.
Being caught in Windance was the least of her problems now. Lyssa hastened to the phone, dialed 911, quickly related the situation and got immediate assurance a police officer was on the way.
Back in the foyer, she deactivated the fence alarm. The jarring bleats stopped. Her nervous gaze swung to the man on the floor. He hadn’t moved, but what if he came to before the police arrived? The disturbing possibility sent her digging through kitchen cupboards until she located a length of cheesecloth and some scissors.
“When I get through with you, buddy, you aren't going to be hurting anyone else,” she promised, coiling a length of cheesecloth around his wrists. Using macrame skills she hadn’t employed since her teen years, Lyssa trussed his hands behind his back, then stretched the makeshift rope to his ankles and cinched them together until his limbs and body formed a crooked O. She tested the knots. They’d probably hold. She glanced toward the kitchen, deciding the phone was too far away.
Slipping and sloshing and depositing gritty smears in her wake, Lyssa dragged him on the cotton throw rug into the kitchen. Only then did she let herself relax enough to feel the cold of her saturated clothing and to wonder why this man had come after her. The face was not familiar. She didn’t know him, had never seen him before that she could recall. Sighing, she concluded he was probably just a lunatic and she'd never know his reasons. In fact, he likely didn’t know the reasons himself.
God, a woman alone wasn’t safe anywhere nowadays. Then again, perhaps she’d been so worried about Grandy and the necklace, she hadn’t been as cautious as she usually was. A fat lot of good it did to realize it now. Her return to Arizona would be delayed precious hours, hours Grandy might not have.
Grandy was so certain her miracle was going to happen; so certain the wedding necklace would be returned to the family before she drew her last breath. Somehow Lyssa had to find the faux Purity and bring it to her in time. But time was running out. Thanks to this jerk. She felt like striking out at the unconscious man, but knew it would improve nothing, especially not her mood.
A sudden weariness settled over her. She ached to get out of the wet clothes and into a hot shower, but the thought of leaving the man unguarded, even to fetch a towel, started her trembling worse than ever. Lyssa retrieved the tire iron from the foyer. It felt as heavy as a bar of gold. Scooting her sodden bottom onto the tiled kitchen counter, she balanced the weapon across her thighs.
The only sounds in the house were the plonk of water dropping from her pants hem, puddling on the oak floor beneath her feet, and the man’s steady breathing. At least, murder wouldn’t be added to her Thursday night's activities. Her gaze steadied on her prisoner, tracing his features, his build, memorizing every detail. There would be no question of identification when she testified against him.
She had a talent for sizing people up at a glance. But this was different. Hard to judge his height with him all scrunched up. Let’s see, she had aimed the vase about five inches above her head, and she was five foot five…height: average. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow…weight: average. His face--now that at least was not average. His nose and chin, even his lips, had a boldness she deemed downright sensual. A wicked looking lump, the size of a halved tennis ball, adorned the upper left corner of his forehead. It was scarlet against his disheveled blue-black hair. Lyssa shivered, feeling hot, yet cold.
What had life done to this handsome man to turn him into a psychopath?
He groaned, and his black eyebrows twitched.
Lyssa flinched, and clutched the tire iron over her racing heart.
Outside, the killer clutched the crowbar between frustrated fists, and drew a ragged breath. Damn! Waiting three days for the right moment and when it comes, she escapes. Look at her, sitting on the counter. So close. So far away.
A vision of cracking Lyssa across the skull with the heavy metal filled the watcher's mind. Then dissolved in an angry exhalation of breath. If only she’d been caught on the road. Silencing her in this house was not appealing. The police weren’t keen on coincidences. Another body at Windance might start them asking questions. Unwanted questions.
A police siren sounded so far in the distance it was almost not audible and sent an alarm straight through the watcher.
Lyssa Carlyle would be dealt with later.
When she was alone.
Sooner than she expected.
The killer hurried down the drive and squeezed through the new gap between the wrought iron bars. Glancing from the old Caddy to the newer one parked next to the fence sparked an idea. “Seems I need some new wheels.”
Tossing raincoat, hat and gloves into the old beater, the killer hastened to the late model Cadillac. It would be close--hot wiring the Caddy, a skill learned years ago from necessity, and taking off before the police arrived--but not impossible. The killer doubted the siren could be heard inside the house yet.
Opening the driver's door flooded the inside of the newer Cadillac with light. Sliding onto the rich leather upholstery, the killer moved aside a discarded gray suit jacket, and stretched across the bench seat to reach the wiring under the dashboard. A jingle from the steering column caught the killer's attention. And evoked a smile. Protruding from the ignition were the car keys.
“Well, well, well. How very obliging.”
Sitting up, the killer gripped the keys. Raucous laughter was drowned by the shutting of the car door. The engine hummed to life. A moment later the new Cadillac pulled onto the road, heading back to Belmont.
The police officer didn't even glance at the Cadillac as the two cars passed on the Tahuya bridge.
CHAPTER TWO
Where were the police? Lyssa peeled back the soggy cuff of her sweater and stared at her watch which, through some miracle of modern technology, was ticking away as efficiently as though it had not been doused in the canal. The sudden switch of digital numbers prompted a weary sigh. She had no idea how long ago she’d dialed 911--time hadn’t been a priority at that moment, but it was getting to be. Her skin ached with cold and goose flesh. She sneezed.
Craig Rival groaned. His eyelids flashed open. The spinning room brought them slamming shut again. Pain throbbed inside his head, and he recalled too vividly being struck with the Dresden vase. Concussion? That would account for the delusions. He could have sworn he'd seen the sea monster again--sitting on the counter. God knew he could smell it.
Lyssa thought she heard a movement on the porch outside the window. Startled she spun toward the window. Was that someone moving through the darkness, or her own terror playing tricks on her? A moan from her prisoner chased the thought away and set her pulse leaping. Her racing blood vanquished some of her chill. She hopped to the floor.
The motion jostled Craig’s body. His eyes blinked open. Less than four inches from his nose two grimy tennis shoes stared back at him. He tried to sit up, but his limbs didn’t respond. Had the blow to his skull left him paralyzed? He shook his head hoping to clear the fog, but managed only to rouse a bevy of dancing stars.
Something prickled his cheek as the left side of his face reclaimed the scruffy cotton rug. Whiskers, he thought, closing his eyes. Need a shave. His spinning head throbbed. It occurred to him there was a flaw in his paralysis theory, but he hurt too much everywhere to reason it out. If only that awful odor would go away, he could think straighter.
The swick of wet denim pants brought Craig’s eyes open a slit. A woman leaned over him, wielding the tire iron centimeters from his forehead. She wasn’t a sea monster, although she certainly did smell and look like something fresh from the briny deep. Dark streaks underscored both of her cold sea green eyes, and seaweed and sand studded her face, her stringy hair and dank clothes. “Who the hell are you?”
“As if you don’t know.” Lyssa shook her head. How dare this lowlife piece of slime pretend he hadn’t gone through her carry-on bag, the glove box of her car, seen the car rental agreement?
Craig tried to straighten his limbs and realized with a jolt that his arms and legs were tied behind him. He gave a reflexive, ineffectual jerk on the bindings. “What the hell? Lady, are you crazy or something?”
“How dare you call me crazy?” Was that a car motor she heard? She peered toward the window again, but could see nothing but her own reflection. She spun back to her prisoner.
The fanatical gleam in her eyes chilled Craig. She looked insane enough to crush his skull with that tire iron. He’d better try to humor her…until he thought of some way to get free. “Wh--what’s going on?”
Lyssa shook her head. “Don't tell me cracking a vase on that thick skull of yours made you forget the past couple of hours?”
“Look, if it's money you want…I haven't much on me, but I can lay my hands on, ah…” God, how much would it take to get rid of her? “Uh, several thousand dollars. As soon as the banks open tomorrow.”
“Several thous--?” Lyssa gave a derisive laugh. “I don’t want your money.”
Surprised confusion arrowed through him. He struggled against his ties. “Then what do you want?”
Was that a siren she heard at last? Yes. Soon. The police would be here soon. A modicum of relief swept through her. “What I want is to know why you’ve been trying to kill me.”
Wide-eyed with disbelief, Craig glared at the woman. “Why I’ve been trying to kill you? Lady, take a good look around, I’m the one who’s been attacked in my own house and hog-tied like a roped calf at a rodeo.”
Lyssa rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and laughed. “Your house?” The siren was closer, louder. Didn't he hear it?
“Yes, my house. I’m Craig Rival.”
The name momentarily threw Lyssa. She didn’t believe for one minute he was Wayne’s nephew and heir--not with that blue-black hair, those black-brown eyes. But he hadn’t pulled Craig Rival’s name from thin air. The creep was obviously a local. Lyssa clicked her tongue at the man. “You’re a smooth one, I’ll give you that. But for your information, Craig Rival won’t be back in this country until tomorrow.”
How did she know that? “I took an earlier flight.”
“Of c-course.” Lyssa buried her nose against the grungy sweater plastered to her upper arm and sneezed. She could definitely hear a siren now.
Craig gave another frustrated yank on his tethers. “Dammit! I am Craig Rival!”
“And I’m Madonna.” Lyssa’s teeth began to chatter.
“You should get out of those wet clothes.”
Lyssa sucked in a sharp breath, then glowered at the man through narrowed eyelids, and smacked her palm with the tire iron.
Craig tried to shrink away from her, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Believe me, lady, the last thing I want is to see you naked, but your lips are blue and you’re shaking like Jello. You’re going to catch pneumonia.”
“Spare me the concern. I wouldn’t be s-s-sopping wet if it weren’t for you.” Lyssa sneezed again.
“Me? I don't know what you’re taking about.”
“Yeah--right.” From outside, Lyssa caught the distinct wail of a siren gearing down and, for the first time in hours, breathed easier.
“Look, Ms…uh…?” When it was obvious she wasn’t going to fill in the blank, he continued, “My name is Craig Rival, and this is my kitchen floor you’re dripping on.”
“Man, y-you’re a b-broken record.” She hugged herself against another onslaught of shivering.
“I can prove it. My ID is in my wallet.”
“Yeah, and your wallet is where--in your other pants? I’ve already searched the ones you’re wearing and guess what? No wallet.”
“I don't always carry my wallet in my pants.”
“Then where is it?”
“In my suit jacket,” Craig ground in frustration.
Lord, his look of indignation ticked her. The man was incredible. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not wearing a jacket.”
“Correct.” Craig groaned. “I didn’t want to ruin it on the fence. It’s in my car. Outside the gate. Look, it’d only take a couple of minutes to check.”
The sound of footsteps on the porch gave Lyssa heart. She leaned closer and spat out the words. “Tell the police. Maybe they’ll buy your story.”
“The police--?” Had she actually been fool enough to call them? A sliver of hope knifed through Craig. He knew all the local cops by name. In a few minutes this mess would be cleared up and she’d be the one getting her fragrant hide hauled to jail.
A series of insistent buzzes jerked Lyssa’s head toward the foyer. Rising, she gave Craig a derisive smile. “Ahh--the cavalry sounds impatient. Maybe they’ll just save the tax payers’ money and execute you now. By firing squad.”
Lyssa left the room at a run.
Craig watched the woman’s departing backside. She was a bit thin for his taste, but her wet clothes cleaved her curves in ways that under normal circumstances would tweak his imagination. However, there was nothing normal about his situation or this female. His pounding head pulled a moan from him. What a homecoming. Realizing his hands and feet felt numb, Craig attempted to shift positions. Nothing helped. The cops hadn’t arrived any too soon.
Lyssa had expected her rescuers to be the macho cops she watched on television shows. Instead, neither of the two uniformed police officers standing spotlighted beneath the porch light looked old enough to be out of high school.
The female officer referred to a palm sized tablet, then glanced down at Lyssa with questioning hazel eyes. “Ms. Carlyle?”
Lyssa nodd
ed. Then let loose with a hearty sneeze.
“I’m Officer Kaslow.” Dark brown hair hung in a thick, no-nonsense braid down her back, and her serious tone denied any inexperience Lyssa had been laying at her door. “This is my partner, Officer Dunn.”
Officer Dunn had the pink cheeked, milk white complexion of a little boy. His blond hair brushed his ear tips and the brim of his cap shadowed soft blue eyes. He held his lanky frame in a self-conscious slump.
Lyssa ushered them in and closed the door against the chilled night air. “Thank God, you’re here. I don’t t-think I could have held up m-much longer.”
“Our report says you have the suspect tied up. Where is he?” the policeman asked.
“In t-there.” Lyssa pointed, and sneezed.
Officer Dunn left the two women alone in the foyer and hurried into the kitchen. Lyssa rapidly related the sequence of events for Officer Kaslow up to and including her conversation with her prisoner.
Officer Kaslow asked, “Are you a relative of the Rivals, Ms. Carlyle?”
Lyssa hugged herself against another attack of shivers, but she was prepared for this question. She'd decided to tell the police the truth, just not all of it. “N-no. A business associate and friend.”
“Then you know Craig Rival?”
“No. He’s been in Europe since before his uncle and I met. In fact, I was here last weekend when he called from overseas. He’s d-due home this Friday. Tomorrow.”
To Craig, it seemed like an eon before he finally heard footsteps headed his way. He watched the doorway expectantly, rolling to his stomach and speaking over his shoulder the second he thought he recognized a familiar face. “Okay, Archer. The joke’s gone on long enough. Hurry. Untie me before my hands and feet turn black. I want that crazy woman arrested.”